


My summer

by Sherctorrunning23



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Johnlock, Angst, Cute John and Sherlock, Fluff, Happy Ending, John Watson - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, So so fluffy, Some french (with translations), Summer Holiday, Teenlock, Vacation, a few self-harm references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7815646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherctorrunning23/pseuds/Sherctorrunning23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He started off as John's friend.<br/>A summer friend, a friend for the summer. Simple, uncomplicated, friend, just a clever boy with nice eyes who can make him laugh.<br/>It didn't take long for him to become more than John's friend.<br/>So, so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My summer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fluffy fic with lots of Johnlock, with French translations at the bottom. Please comment, leave kudos and comment any ideas for my next oneshot! :)

‘This looks _so_ lame.’ Harry pulled a face as she dropped her suitcase, looking around in disdain. ‘God, Mum, _why._ ’ 

Jenny, John’s mother, was pulling a similar face. ‘Well. Um. I…it didn't look like this in the leaflet.’ 

John rolled his eyes at his mother and sister, poking his head around the door to his right. ‘Come on, guys, it’s really not that bad.’ 

‘I don’t know what planet you’re living on, Johnny, but this place is a shithole.’ Harry poked the door, grimacing when she pulled her finger back. ‘Why is this door so dirty? How can a door _get_ this dirty?’

‘At least there are three bedrooms,’ Jenny said positively. ‘A room each. That’s nice.’ 

John nodded in agreement, smiling supportively at his mother. It was their first holiday together since the divorce and he wanted it to be a success for her. ‘I think this’ll be great,’ he lied. ‘I really do.’ 

Harry huffed. ‘Well, then, let’s have a look around.’ 

Their villa (except it wasn't really a villa, it was like a shitty hotel room without a hotel around it) had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. The master bedroom seemed to serve as a living room as well, though there were only one tiny sofa, and the second bedroom had a desk in it. John had to admit it was nicer inside than it had been outside ( _‘That,_ ’ _Harry said in disgust, ‘Looks like it would fall down in a strong breeze. Mum, we’re all going to die.’)_ but the third bedroom was awful. It barely fit a single bed and the wardrobe was covered in mould. 

The moment Harry saw the third bedroom she went back into the second and loudly exclaimed, ‘This one is mine.’ John, who didn't want any conflict, just shrugged and dumped his suitcase on the bed.

The bed made a loud creaking sound and collapsed.

‘Oh dear,’ Jenny said. ‘That’s not good.’ 

John just shook his head and started unpacking the bags. He couldn't be bothered to get into a massive _thing,_ and he also suspected that if he did say something he might cry. 

As he laid his shirts out neatly on the shelves, his mother came up behind him and kissed his head gently. ‘Come on, Johnny,’ she whispered. ‘It will be alright.’ 

Because it was so late, there was no time to explore the resort and they went straight to bed. John was told he could share his mother’s bed but Harry instantly shot that down ( _‘Ew, Mum, that’s incest. Johnny’s twelve, not two.’)_ so John lay on his mattress, staring at the ceiling, and cried as he had done every night since his dad left. 

The next morning Jenny woke him up at half past eight because ‘Teen club starts in half an hour, John!’ The resort they were staying at was an all-inclusive deal, where the parents got drunk and slept by the pool all day whilst the children were entertained by the staff, or as they were called here _A.T’s._ John had no idea what that stood for (they were in France, so he assumed it was something French) and didn't really care: personally, he would much rather stay with his mum. 

Jenny, however, thought it would be good for him to socialise and make new friends, so he went traipsing after Harry, who was incredibly excited. Both of the Watson children were incredibly sociable and well-liked, but John just wasn't feeling it. Their father had left less than two months before and this trip had meant to be for all four of them, and although he knew it was bad John couldn't help but imagine what his father would be doing if he was here. He wouldn't make John go to the teen club, he would think it was stupid and let John stay with him, letting him have sips of his beer and playing table tennis- 

Harry threw open the door of the teen club. 

The building was small, with only one room, and John couldn't help but wonder at the number of teenagers crammed into it. There were ten older teenagers aged between about 16-18 in one corner, another group of about fifteen in the 13-15 age range in another and over twenty in the last half of the room. The children in this half were John’s age or a year younger and were crowded around a tall boy about John’s age with a shock of dark, curly hair and really _cool_ eyes. 

Everyone was silent, staring at Harry and John, and John wanted the ground to swallow him up.

An A.T emerged from behind the oldest teenagers and said cheerfully, ‘Bonjour! Bienvenue aux adolescents Club! Comment t’appelle vous?’ 

John blinked: he did Spanish at school and had no idea what the woman had just said. Harry, who went to the same school as John, looked similarly clueless. 

The curly-haired boy cocked his head and said loudly, ‘Etes-vous stupide, ou pouvez-vous pas parler français?’

Most of the children laughed loudly, and John closed his eyes as he blushed a deep red colour. 

A ginger boy who looked about eighteen uncurled himself from a huge armchair and tutted. ‘Ne soyez pas impoli , Sherlock , le garçon est clairement d' une intelligence supérieure à la moyenne. Regardez sa coupe de cheveux!’ The ginger boy then smiled at Harry and whispered in an incredibly upper-class English accent, surprising John, ‘Sorry about him. He likes to show off.’ 

Harry nodded, tossing her hair as she glared at the curly-haired boy. ‘Yeah. He looks like a twat.’ 

‘I cannot disagree there,’ the boy laughed, smiling, but John was far too aware of every eye in the tiny building being fixed on them. ‘What are your names?’ 

‘I’m Harriet, but everyone calls me Harry, and this is Johnny-‘

‘John,’ John corrected quietly. 

‘John, my brother.’ Harry looked around the room: the conversations had restarted, and John felt slightly less uncomfortable. ‘I’m fourteen, he’s twelve.’ 

‘My name is Mycroft,’ Mycroft said. He looked around the room at this point before sighing and rolling his eyes. ‘The only A.T who speaks English isn't here, it’s his day off, so I suppose I’m showing you around. Right now, we’re in the Quad: this is what we call the Teen Club headquarters. The club is split into three groups: the first group, _les enfants,_ is the group aged between ten and twelve.’ Mycroft pointed at the curly-haired boy’s group. ‘The second, _le milieu,_ is for those aged between thirteen and fifteen, and then the top group, l _es aînés,_ is for the sixteen to eighteen year olds.’ He paused. ‘John, you’ll be with _les enfants,_ Harriet, you’ll be with _le milieu.’_ He reached into a drawer in the ancient kitchenette attached to the back wall and withdrew two pieces of laminated paper. ‘This is the schedule for Tuesday’s. You get a new one every day. How long are you here for?’ 

‘Three weeks,’ Harry replied. Mycroft nodded approvingly. ‘You’ll pick it up quickly. Read the schedule, attend whatever activities you like the look of, and ignore Sherlock.’ He nodded at the curly-haired boy again. ‘Like I said, he likes to show off.’ 

John cleared his throat and asked timidly, ‘Does anybody hear speak English?’ 

‘Most of the French children speak a bit,’ Mycroft answered. ‘And we do have some English members. They’ll introduce themselves to you, probably. You’ll pick up some French quickly, but until then if someone speaks to you just say _je ne parle pas le francais ._ Repeat it for me?’ 

Harry and John repeated the phrase with ease and Mycroft smiled. ‘Excellent. Well, if you need me, I’m with this group.’ He pointed at the older teenagers before saying slyly, ‘Which is called…?’

‘Les aînés,’ John said quickly, and Mycroft nodded. ‘Very good, John. Have fun, Watsons.’ 

The first activity was volleyball and John and Harry followed the group of laughing French children. The curly-haired boy, Sherlock, was clearly the leader of John’s group and although he didn't know what it was that Sherlock had said when they walked in, it was clearly an insult of some sort. John didn't like being insulted, and he immediately vowed to stay as far away from him as possible. 

They soon reached the two pitches. The older two groups took one (Harry was pulled in by a pretty girl with blonde hair and smiley brown eyes) and _les enfants_ divided into two teams on the second. John, who had no idea what was going on, just sat on the ground with his back to the pitch and picked the grass, tears welling in his eyes. He could almost imagine his Dad shouting _come on, John, show them what a Watson is made of,_ and he missed him so much in that moment that it physically hurt- 

Someone sat down next to him. John sniffed, wiped his nose, and then turned fiercely towards whoever it was. _‘What?_ ’ 

Sherlock smiled, before surprising John by saying in the same English accent as Mycroft, ‘Can I sit here?’ 

Although John had just decided to stay away from Sherlock, he reevaluated and came to the conclusion that it was a bad idea to instantly make enemies with the leader of his group. Therefore John shrugged and turned away. ’Whatever.’ 

Behind them, someone yelled, ‘Sherlock ! Est-ce que vous ne jouez pas?’ Sherlock turned around and shouted back, ‘Plus tard. Je suis un peu fatigué.’ 

John raised an eyebrow despite himself, impressed. He didn't have to say anything, he knew that, but something inside him compelled him to say, ’You speak French and English fluently already?’ 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘My mother is french and we live on the resort. My mum owns it. She uses me and my brothers as translators, so we’ve been learning foreign languages since we were born, practically.’ 

John’s mouth fell open. ‘You know _more_ than just English and French?’ 

Sherlock snorted. ‘Mum assigns each of us a new language at the beginning of the year, and we have to be fluent by the end. I’ve done that since I was seven: so far, I’ve got Japanese, Russian, Italian, Portuguese and Spanish as well as French and English. 

‘That,’ John said, ‘Is amazing.’ 

Sherlock looked at him sideways. ‘I can do something even cooler.’ 

‘ _No,_ ’ John gasped. ‘ _What?’_

Sherlock bent his head close to John’s and whispered, ‘I can tell your life story just by looking at you.’ 

‘Go on,’ John said, interested. ‘Do it.’

Sherlock frowned. ‘It gets a bit personal.’ 

‘Don’t care,’ John insisted. ‘Do it.’ 

‘Fine,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘I can see that you are twelve years old, left-handed, one sister, divorced parents, suffering from mild depression since the recent separation of said parents, likes sciences and physical education, wants to be a doctor and possibly join the army.’ 

John was speechless. 

‘Well?’ Sherlock said, and for the first time he didn't sound cocky and arrogant and confident, he sounded scared and timid and a little bit apprehensive. ‘What d’you think? Am I right?’ 

‘Completely right,’ John breathed, scarcely able to believe what the boy had just done. ‘That was-‘ 

‘Do you want to know how I did it?’ Sherlock asked, his face lit up by the biggest smile John had ever seen. John shook his head. ‘I don’t care, but you were _right._ And you’re _twelve-‘_

‘Eleven,’ Sherlock grinned. ‘My birthday’s next week.’ 

‘That was AMAZING!’ John shouted the last word, punching Sherlock on the shoulder. ‘You’re a genius!’ 

Sherlock looked at the ground, still smiling. ‘You think?’ 

‘I know.’ John shook his head in disbelief. ‘That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.’ 

‘People don’t usually say that,’ Sherlock said. John frowned. ‘What do they usually say?’ 

‘Go away,’ Sherlock laughed, and John giggled as well. ‘In fact, I think you’re the first person who’s ever told me it’s _cool._ ’ 

A tall girl with dark hair and an Irish accent appeared behind Sherlock, laying a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as she sat down. ‘So,’ she said in an Irish accent. ‘He deduced you? What did you say? Do you hate him yet?’ 

‘He _liked_ it,’ Sherlock said immediately, smiling crookedly at John. ‘So ha at you, Janine.’ 

Janine rolled her eyes as two other children, a small girl and a plump boy, sat down next to her. ‘Well. Miracles happen.’ 

‘What’s your name?’ Sherlock asked suddenly, and it took John a moment to realise that he was asking _him._ ‘John. John Ke- Watson.’ After their Dad had left, Harry had been adamant that they change their last names to their mother’s. John had been reluctant (he still hoped, wished, _dreamed)_ that their father would return but it had pleased their mother, and John had to admit that John Watson sounded better than John Kendrick. 

Sherlock nodded. ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes. These are Janine, Molly and Mike.’ 

‘Pleased meeting you,’ Mike said in heavily accented French. Molly didn't say anything, just nodding quickly before alternating between staring at the ground and then staring at Sherlock, who was clearly doing his best to ignore her. 

 _Ha,_ John thought, then wondered why that pleased him. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but was immediately interrupted by a voice from behind him. ’Well, well, well. It looks like Sherlock’s made a new _friend_. Such a break from tradition, isn't it, brother mine?’  

John had wondered why Mycroft and Sherlock seemed familiar with each other and thought about asking, but it was explained by the _brother mine._ In hindsight, it should have been obvious: they had the same regal expression, exuded the same aura of arrogant intelligence and looked at each other like they hated each other. 

_So obvious._

Sherlock scowled. ‘So what if I have, _fatty,_ ’ he spat. ‘Why are you over here? Your group is on the _other_ court.’ 

Mycroft sat down on John’s other side, closely followed by another boy with light brown hair and laughing brown eyes wearing tennis kit. ‘I wanted to check you weren't traumatising our newest recruit,’ he replied snidely. ‘Is he behaving, John?’ 

‘Oh, yes,’ John grinned, and for the first time in months he felt confident, properly confident. ‘He’s being very good.’ 

Janine laughed and even Molly sniggered a bit. The boy next to Mycroft tilted his head and said querulously, ‘Que dit-il?’ 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. ‘Il est juste d'être arrogante.’

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. ‘Lestrade,’ he began, an impish look in his eyes, ‘Est-il amusant, sucer la bite de mon frère, ou est trop gros pour être confortable?’     

The boy, Lestrade, blushed horribly. Mycroft rolled his eyes but his cheeks also went slightly pink. John and Molly exchanged confused looks, Mike laughed and Janine looked disgusted.  

‘Thank you for being as _mature_ as always, brother,’ Mycroft hissed as he stood up, pulling Lestrade after him. ‘I’ll _not_ be seeing you later.’ 

‘I’m sure Lestrade has seen enough of you for both of us,’ Sherlock winked, and Mycroft fixed him with a scathing look. ‘Enjoy him, John,’ he hissed, before storming away, Lestrade jabbering away in quick French next to him. 

A sunny smile appeared on Sherlock’s face and he stood up, offering his hand to John. ‘So, _mon ami._ Do you want to have a look around the resort and,’ he waggled his eyebrows, ‘enjoy me?’ 

‘God, yes,’ John breathed, and he took Sherlock’s hand and followed him away. 

*

‘Come _on,’_ Sherlock hissed impatiently as he looked around, squinting into the darkness. ‘Someone is going to see us, _imbécile.’_

‘You know,’ John gasped as he pulled himself onto the jetty, ‘You sound English but you drop _far_ too much French into your language to pass as a native.’ 

‘I am a native,’ Sherlock said absentmindedly, still looking around. John shook his head as he straightened up, looking around. ‘Nah, Sher. You were born in France, your first language was French, you’ve lived in France all your life. You are _not_ a native.’ 

‘I would much rather be French than English,’ Sherlock said stiffly as he opened the gate. ‘France is hotter, less rainy and _much_ more interesting than England. The books are better, the coffee is superb and the language…’ Sherlock kissed his fingers. ‘The language is _beautiful._ There’s a reason why they call it the _language of love._ ’ 

John shrugged. ‘Gotta give you that. It’s a pretty language.’ 

Sherlock turned back to his friend, frowning. ‘I’m pretty sure you’re not allowed to say that, John. Isn't it a bit babyish and, ah, _not masculine_ enough?’ Sherlock had been saying since John had come back, almost four weeks ago, that he was different. He wouldn't engage in activities viewed as _babyish,_ he wouldn't say anything was pretty or interesting or cool, even if it was, and he refused to do or say anything that he didn't think was masculine. 

Sherlock clearly didn't understand and John couldn't explain it. Maybe it was because he was almost a year younger (Sherlock had celebrated his thirteenth birthday a few weeks before, while John was almost fourteen) or maybe it was because he just wasn't as mature as John, who now sported soft, downey hair on his upper lip and had a voice that cracked and broke.

John hadn't expected for him and Sherlock to click again, like they’d done last time. He’d thought too much time had passed, they were both too much older and they hadn't seen or spoken to each other in too long a time: they’d come back to the resort and John had assumed they would ignore each other for the four weeks that John was here. 

Instead, the morning after they’d arrived, Sherlock had stalked into the dining hall and grabbed John. ‘There’s a racoon,’ he said as John followed him out of the hall, ‘in the lake. We need to get him out.’ It was like no time had passed, and John was surprised to find that he was pleased, really, really _pleased_ that they were together again. 

They’d spent four weeks together, talking and laughing and playing, and John had had the _best_ holiday of his life. He liked Sherlock more than he liked any of his regular, term-time friends and he was more upset than he cared to admit that they wouldn't see each other again until the following summer. 

Sherlock was smiling at him from by the kayaks, and John hastily followed him down. ‘How much trouble will we get in if we’re caught?’ John asked. When Sherlock raised an eyebrow, he hastily added, ‘not that I care. I just…I’m wondering.’ 

‘Well,’ Sherlock replied as he untied the end kayak, ‘You won’t get into trouble, because you’re leaving tomorrow, and nobody will punish me except my Mum. I’m not worried about her.’ Sherlock’s mother, despite being a massively successful mathematician with several published books in the field and the head of a huge chain of resorts all up the French coast was a real softie who clearly adored her children and husband. John had met her several times both last year and this year, and she had made him feel nothing but welcome. 

Sherlock crowed as he finally untied the kayak and shoved it into the lake. It was for two people and John hopped in the back before he could change his mind: Sherlock tossed him a paddle and then leapt into the front seat. ‘Keep quiet,’ Sherlock warned, and took a paddle. ‘Now. Follow my lead.’ 

As they moved into the middle of the lake, John tried to tell himself that Sherlock was so much better than him at this only because he had lived here all of his life. While this might have been partially true, John knew a large part of Sherlock’s skill was just that: _skill._ The boy was incredibly intelligent and incredibly talented physically: he could do _everything._

He could run, jump, climb, row, throw, catch, hit, dance, _everything._ If they were playing a sport in teen club, everybody always wanted to be on Sherlock’s team, and people would actually crowd around when he played table tennis or danced. Sherlock danced _brilliantly._ His ballet was his best, but his ballroom and tap and even hip-hop were almost flawless as well. 

It was depressing having such a talented friend, but at the same time it was awesome. Sherlock was the most popular kid at the resort, and as his best friend, John was as well.

Sherlock’s oar cut silently into the water, propelling them forwards, as John splashed and swore and tried to stay balanced in the back. ‘ _Mon dieu,_ John, _silencieux_.’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I don't want to be brought in.’ 

‘I’ll just stop paddling,’ John whispered. ‘Ok?’ 

Sherlock nodded, his head silhouetted in the full moon, and they lapsed back into quiet as Sherlock rowed. John didn't like to disturb him when he was in the zone, and Sherlock was clearly enjoying the powerful movement of the oar on the silent lake. 

After an age, Sherlock stopped and pointed upwards. John dutifully looked at the sky. 

It was magnificent. 

A million stars in a pitch black sky, the moon hanging, full and heavy, right in the centre. The stars were glinting and glimmering, winking down on the lake, and the whole scene seemed to have been made specially for them. 

 _Thanks,_ John said silently to the universe. 

‘Beautiful, aren't they?’ Sherlock murmured, and John looked at his friend in shock. ‘You don't like any of this stuff, Sher. You didn't even know the Earth went round the sun: you think it’s stupid.’ 

‘I like beautiful things,’ Sherlock said simply. ‘And this is a beautiful thing. Just because it’s stupid doesn't mean I can’t appreciate it.’ 

John glanced at Sherlock, and as he looked at the pale face made paler still by the moonlight, the blue eyes closed with long, thick lashes curling _just_ the right amount, the perfectly carved chin and those cheekbones, the right incisor biting down on the bottom cupid-bow lip, John felt something he’d never felt before. A tingle, a feeling, right in the very pit of his stomach, and he didn't know what it was but he _liked_ it. 

‘You’re staring,’ Sherlock said, a smile in his voice, and the feeling disappeared immediately as John coughed and looked out across the lake. ‘Yeah. Just lost in thought, thinking about girls and black ops and, um, rugby.’ 

‘Right,’ Sherlock replied, looking at John as if he was an absolute idiot. ‘Right. Cos that’s what I wanted you to think about at this moment.’ 

John grinned and nudged Sherlock’s back: the younger boy laughed, a real, fresh laugh that echoed off the lake, and shook his head. ‘You really don't want to end up in this lake at night, John, we have no idea what’s in here.’

‘I’m not scared,’ John said confidently. ‘Not if you’re here.’  

Sherlock bowed his head so John couldn't see his face, and John felt suddenly awkward which had _never_ happened with Sherlock before. Before it could get too bad, however, Sherlock looked back up and said, facing the lake so John still couldn't see his eyes, ‘Will you miss me?’ 

John didn't even have to think of a reply. It was instinct, a reflex, to say, ‘More than you could possibly imagine.’  

Sherlock turned to him with a smile so bright it rivalled the moon. ‘And I you, _mon ami._ ’ 

John coughed and turned back to the lake, glad it was dark so Sherlock couldn't see the insane smile on his face. ‘I haven't seen much of Mycroft this holiday. Is he ok?’ 

Sherlock sounded a bit disappointed as he said, ‘He’s off with Lestrade. They’re in _love.’_

‘Did they meet here?’ John asked, and Sherlock snorted. ‘Yeah. Mycroft was fifteen, Lestrade was a few months younger. Mycroft was totally smitten from first sight but Lestrade was a straight boy who totally played him for three summers.’ He paused. ‘And then, of course, he randomly realised that he was totally in love with Mycroft, God knows why.’ 

‘That’s cute,’ John laughed, forgetting that he was meant to be a manly man now. ‘I can’t imagine Mycroft in love, though.’ 

Sherlock pulled a face. ‘Love is stupid. It makes people into fools. Mycroft was fun before he met Lestrade, and now he’s mature and boring and wouldn't row or swim with me anymore, even when Lestrade _isn't here_. Sherrinford’s the same: he was so fun when I was a kid. He’d take me out on the lake, he’d walk me around the resort, he’d even start food fights with me…and then he met Ellie, and he didn't want to do any of that anymore.’ Sherrinford was the eldest Holmes brother: he wasn't quite as intelligent as the other two, though still smart, and at least ten years older than Mycroft. John had met him once and not liked him, though he would never say that to Sherlock. For someone who claimed to hate Mycroft as much as he did, he was incredibly loyal to his family. 

‘Love is stupid,’ John repeated, and Sherlock nodded. ‘Mycroft has this one favourite phrase that he uses all the time. L'amour est un défaut chimique, trouvé sur le côté perdant.’ 

‘Love…find on…I don't know. Translate it for me?’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘It isn't a nice phrase. Ignore me.’ 

Silence fell again, but it wasn't awkward this time. They were enjoying each others company, enjoying being with each other until they were inevitably parted for another year. John wondered if they would still be friends, still have this connection, after another year apart. 

God, he hoped so. 

It was strange to think, but it was the truth. John really liked Sherlock and he thought Sherlock really liked him, and he hoped, hoped, _hoped_ that they would be friends again next year. 

_Please, God, let it be the same next year._

Suddenly, Sherlock reached backwards and slipped a bit of paper into John’s hand, though his face remained turned forwards. John turned it over, squinting in the darkness. ‘What’s this?’ 

‘Hold it up to the moon,’ Sherlock said quietly, and so John did. 

**_Les meilleurs amis doivent appeler les meilleurs amis._ **

**_+337585120650_ **

‘What does it say?’ John frowned. Although he had picked up some French over the two summers he’d been here, he had no idea what this said. Too many verbs. 

Sherlock took a deep breath. ‘That’s my phone number.’ He looked at John under those thick eyelashes, looking more worried than John had ever seen him look, and said quietly, ‘You’re my best friend, John, and I don't want to go another year without talking to you.’ 

Relief flooded John, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. 

‘Neither do I,’ he said quietly. 

Sherlock smiled one of those breathtaking smiles but didn't say anything, simply looking upwards at the sky, the moon lighting up his face, a Michelangelo’s David in a small lake in Southern France, staring at the stars. 

John watched Sherlock and knew that he would never be able to look at the moon again without thinking about Sherlock.

Sherlock, his best friend. 

*

John didn't know how it happened. 

It’s about halfway through their six week summer holiday. The morning was good (he and Sherlock went jet skiing) and the early afternoon was good ( _le milieu,_ the section of the teen club John is in, put on a performance for the little ‘uns and got a standing ovation) and the second part of the afternoon started off really, really well. 

Sherlock was needed to act as translator for a Chinese family who’d come to the resort (at fourteen, Sherlock had learnt three new languages since he’d met John: Mandarin Chinese, Arabic and German) so John had sauntered down to the adults pool to find Harry and his mother. Harry was off with the girl she was infatuated with (every time they came to the resort Harry would find another girl to decide she ‘loved’: first year, it was Clara, second year, it was Joanna, and this year it was Sally) and John just chucked his bag on a sun-bed and lay down. 

Jenny smiled at him, stroking back his wet blonde hair. ‘Hey, Johnny. What are you doing here?’ 

‘Sherlock was needed and I didn't fancy joining the others,’ John admitted. ‘You?’ 

‘Ditto,’ she laughed as she sat up. ‘Roger and Susan went to a couple’s massage and Yolanda, Peter and Wendy were playing tennis. Tennis! I decided to come here for some R and R.’ 

John nodded, smiling as Jenny recounted some story from the night before. He’d been so glad when she’d found people to hang around with at the resort; it made him feel less guilty about constantly asking to come back. Thank God all three of them loved it there, because John looked forward to it all year around. 

His mother finished her story and he pretended he’d been listening. ‘Ah. Yeah.’

‘Anyway,’ she said as she sipped her pina colada. ‘I heard there’s a new girl in your… _group._ ’ 

John frowned unintentionally: he did it every single time anybody mentioned that _girl._

She’d come out of nowhere: one day she’d not been there, the next she was, acting like she knew everybody and belonged there. She was so in-your-face, loud and confident that John had been sure Sherlock would publicly humiliate and then drop her to the kerb, leaving her to go running off to her Mummy, but unfortunately he _liked_ her. 

Sherlock didn't generally like new people. Although he was popular with every single child in the resort, the only ones he really liked were John, Janine, Molly and Mike. He’d know the latter three since he was tiny and John…well. John was an anomaly, and John liked that. 

Then, suddenly, Irene Adler appeared, and John wasn't an anomaly anymore. 

For some reason Sherlock and Irene got on like a house on fire. They were both incredibly intelligent, both incredibly attractive and both wicked at heart: they were _meant_ for each other. John had never seen Sherlock like that with another human being before and he hated it, he hated it, he _hated_ it. 

Although Sherlock had never said that Irene and he were going out, to John it was obvious. It was the little things: the way they shared drinking cups, the way they were _always_ touching, the way they looked and touched one another. The day before Irene had actually kissed Sherlock on the _cheek,_ and John had almost thrown up. 

_Stupid Irene._

John told Jenny all of this in great detail, but unfortunately when he finally finished his mother just laughed and said, ‘So you’re jealous.’

‘ _No,_ ’ John replied hotly. ‘I’m not _jealous._ I just- I haven't seen Sherlock for a year, and he’s my best friend, and suddenly I come here and I’m not-‘

‘His priority,’ she finished. ‘You’re jealous. I don't know why, though, because every time I see you together Sherlock’s attention is 100% on you.’ 

‘No,’ John sulked. ‘I don't know when you’ve been looking but it’s _not._ ’ 

‘He likes her because she’s new and exciting,’ his mother comforted. ‘He’s known you for two years and you’ve Skyped almost every day for the last year…’

‘So he’s bored?’ John looked up in horror: Sherlock couldn't grow _bored_ of him. Everybody knew what happened when Sherlock got _bored,_ and it wasn’t good. 

‘No, no, no,’ she said hastily. ‘John. Listen. You have nothing to worry about.’ 

‘Give me _one_ reason why I shouldn't worry,’ John said petulantly. ‘Go on. _One._ ’ 

‘Well,’ Jenny mused, ‘I’m almost totally sure he’s ga-‘

And suddenly all the colour drained out of her face. 

‘Mum?’ John said, suddenly worried. ‘Mum?’ He turned around, following her line of sight, and then he _saw_ him. 

‘Ms Watson?’ The A.T looked concerned. ‘Ms Watson, this man-‘  

‘She knows who I am,’ John’s father said confidently, and he took off his cap and smiled at John. ‘Hey, Jenny. John.’ 

Jenny was blinking rapidly, sweating. ‘ _Henry?_ ’ 

‘In the flesh,’ he smiled.

Why- how- what- _how?_ ’ 

‘How did I get here?’ Henry was examining his fingernails, and John realised numbly that he was still wearing his dog tags: he looks _exactly_ like he did the last time John saw him, over two years ago. ‘My brother mentioned that were holidaying here when I talked to him last week.’ He sniffed, looking around in disdain. ‘Not exactly the Carribean, is it, Johnny?’ He winked at his son, who remained in dumb silence, scarcely able to believe it, that his father was here and joking, laughing like it had been two days since he saw him instead of _two years_. 

John’s father raised his eyebrows at the lack of a reply. ‘Right, then. Well, it wasn't hard to book a ticket and get out here. It occurred to me that it’s been _ages_ since I saw my children. It’s been-‘

‘Two years and two months,’ John supplied. His voice was hoarse and scratchy. 

‘Time flies, eh?’ Henry laughed. ‘God, Johnny, you’re _so big._ So tall and grown…’ he reached out a hand, as if to touch, but John flinched away. ‘I’m fifteen, almost,’ he growled, ‘Of course I’ve grown.’ 

Jenny was almost hyperventilating, barely able to speak. ‘Why are you _here?_ ’ she managed to gasp out, eyes flickering with hatred. Henry paused, sensing trouble, before meekly saying, ‘I wanted to see my children.’ 

‘ _You,_ ’ Jenny spat, ‘walked out on _us._ You gave up any right to see or speak to your children when you left us that night and never came back, never even made an effort to see any of us.’ 

Henry clasped his hands together ( _he did that when he was nervous,_ John thought numbly), and said quietly, ‘I know I did wrong, Jen-‘

‘Don’t you fucking _Jen_ me,’ Jenny shouted, and both John and the A.T jumped in shock: Jenny Watson never _swore._ ‘You broke the hearts of your wife and your children, Henry, and you have _no_ right to track us down and vow to speak to them, not _now._ ’ 

Henry turned to John, ignoring his wife, and smiled his special Dad smile, the smile that plagued John’s dreams, the smile that he had longed to see for years, and reached out his hand. ‘Johnny. I know I did bad. But you’re pleased to see me?’ 

John had thought about this moment since the day his father had left. 

He’d imagined him coming back with a perfectly reasonable explanation ( _‘I had an emergency, a secret space mission’_ or _‘I’m an undercover spy’_ ) and hugging John to him, making him feel small and protected. He’d imagined him apologising, kissing their mother and making up with his daughter.

He’d imagined him being with his Dad again, but now Henry was here and it was _all_ wrong. 

‘Where’ve you been?’ John said firmly. Henry frowned, glancing at Jenny. ‘Did your mother not say anything to you?’  

John shook his head in confusion. ‘What?’ 

‘John,’ Jenny said quietly, ‘When the divorce papers came through, your _father_ admitted some…’ she trailed off, looking at John with a mixture of pity and guilt. ‘I didn't tell you because I thought it would make it worse.’ 

Henry sighed, looking John directly in the eye. ‘I left because I met someone else, John.’ He paused and smiled again, eyes crinkling, and as they did thousands of memories flooded back into John’s mind: skiing holidays, Christmases, birthdays, _life,_ all accompanied by Henry’s smile. ‘And,’ Henry continued hopefully, ‘Your little brother was born six months ago. I told him all about you, John. I tell him about you all the time.’ 

A whooshing sound went through John’s ears. 

Suddenly, the little boy in all those memories of skiing holidays and Christmases and birthdays was replaced by a faceless baby who had replaced _John_. 

‘His name’s Harry,’ Henry was saying. ‘Named after his old man, but his middle name is John, like his big brother.’ Jenny groaned but Henry ignored her, still addressing John. ‘Wouldn't you like to see him?’

John’s heart hardened. 

‘No.’ 

Henry’s smile instantly disappeared. Jenny’s head shot up. The A.T looked amazed. 

‘What-‘ Henry began to say, but John shook his head insistently. ‘No. I don't want to know _him,_ and I don't want to know _you._ Piss off out of our lives again, it’s so much better without you.’ 

Henry’s face looked like thunder. ‘John Hamish Kendrick-‘

‘Actually,’ Jenny interrupted, a look of intense pride on her face, ‘John and Harry changed their last name shortly after you left. It’s _Watson,_ now.’ 

Henry shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Johnny-‘

John ignored his father completely, turning to the A.T, and politely saying, ‘Please escort Mr Kendrick out and ensure that he doesn't come back.’ 

The A.T nodded, eyes wide, and John was astounded to see that his father was _crying_. ‘Please, Johnny.’ 

John shook his head and said coldly, ‘It’s John. Have a nice life.’ 

And with that, John was gone. 

Walking away from his father, hearing his shouts, and suddenly tears were running down John’s face. Through the blur, Harry was approaching, but he ignored her, rushing past as he cried. There was only one person he wanted to see at that moment, and he ran, ran as fast as he could, trying to get to him. 

He reached the main building just as the main doors opened and Sherlock sauntered out, chatting happily chatting away with a Chinese boy. ‘John!’ He said when he saw the older boy, saying cheerfully, ‘Did you miss me too much-‘

And then he noticed that John was crying and his expression instantly changed. ‘John, what happened-‘ 

John collapsed.

He actually fell on the ground, onto his knees, and the Japanese boy exclaimed something in a panicked voice. John put his hands over his ears and rocked because he couldn't believe it, that his father had tracked him down and John had just sent him away again. He’d gone against everything he’d wanted and _oh god, how could he?_ How could he do that? What would Harry say? Would he never see him again? 

_Would he never see him again?_

All John wanted was to stand up, run after his father and say _I’m sorry, I didn't mean it, please, please, please don't leave me again,_ but he was drowning. His breathing was off and his heart was racing all around his body- 

Suddenly, there were a pair of strong hands on his shoulders and a head pressed against his shoulder. ‘Deep breaths,’ a voice he knew almost as well as his own whispered, ‘Deep breaths, John. Je t'ai. Je t'ai eu. Je suis avec vous, John.’

John listened and John followed, breathing deeply, focusing on the words, letting them wash over him, keeping his head above the water that had threatened to drown him. He’d soon calmed down enough to talk, and he gripped Sherlock close as he gasped, ‘I’m sorry.’ 

Sherlock snorted. ‘God, John, even when you have no reason to be sorry you apologise. What is it with you British?’

‘You’re British too, smart arse.’ John whispered the words weakly but it still made Sherlock laugh, and he nodded. ‘Maybe. Mais ma loyauté est avec la France, John Watson, et tu.’ 

‘I have no idea what you just said,’ John sniffed, and Sherlock chuckled again. ‘That’s the point.’ 

‘Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?’ John asked, and Sherlock shook his head. ‘You’ll tell me when you’re ready,’ he murmured, ‘And not a moment before.’ 

‘How do you understand me better than I understand myself?’ John didn't ask it as a question but Sherlock replied anyway, holding John’s shoulders tightly. ‘It’s what best friends are for.’ 

John didn't reply, just held on tighter, and the two boys sat together as a crowd gathered around them, holding onto each other to keep from drowning. 

*

‘ _Mon Dieu_ ,’ Sherlock said, eyebrows creasing as he stared at the bottle in his hand. ‘This wine is _disgusting._ ’ 

‘Well,’ Irene said haughtily. ‘I’m sorry I couldn't steal anything better.’

‘This wine is an insult to all the French,’ Mike nodded. ‘C’est vrai.’

Janine sighed, taking the bottle and taking a big swig. ‘Don’t drink it then, pussies. More for me.’ 

Sherlock scowled before snatching the wine back, finishing off the bottle and then standing up, swaying slightly. ‘It may be shit, but it’s strong.’ He admitted. ‘We’ve shared three bottles and already I feel…’

‘Lightweight,’ John teased, though in all seriousnesses he felt far drunker than Sherlock looked. Sherlock scowled down at him and kicked out, missing completely and falling flat on his arse. ‘Shit,’ he swore. ‘Fucking stupid fucking coordination.’ 

‘Cheap wine is the strongest,’ Mike said knowledgeably. Janine laughed, punching his arm harder than she intended judging from the look of pain on Mike’s face. ‘Ah, Mikey. We’d know nothing about France if it weren't for you.’ 

‘You have me,’ Sherlock said as he reached for the door. ‘And I bet I know more than anybody else here about England.’ He paused, face screwed up in concentration. ‘France. I meant France.’ 

Nobody was listening anymore, instead watching Janine edging closer and closer to Irene. This summer had been different from all the others: so noticeably different that even John had picked up on it. Gone were the days of Teen club, physical activities, eating lunch and dinner with their parents then going back to the Teen Club Quad until half nine: now they spent their days travelling in a pack, ignoring the Teen club and spending their nights hanging out by the lakeside, or one of the pools, or in one of their rooms until way past curfew. 

Maybe it was because they were all so much older, John thought. Irene, Janine and Mike were all sixteen and it was John’s sixteenth in less than a week. Molly and Sherlock had both only just turned fifteen, which was evident in Molly (who, upon hearing they were going to spend the last night before John, Janine and Irene went home drinking illegally on the roof had shaken her head adamantly and had an early night) but less so in Sherlock, who’d shrugged and followed them to the cafeteria before advising Irene when it was best to steal the wine. 

John suddenly looked around, realising Sherlock was gone. ‘Where the fuck did he go?’ 

‘Je ne sais pas,’ Mike shrugged. Irene and Janine were far too caught up in each other to care, with Irene simply shrugging before putting her hand on Janine’s leg and laughing far too genuinely at some joke the Irish girl was telling. 

‘Pst, Jean,’ Mike whispered. ‘We’re all enjoying the, ah, _lesbienne_ action, but it may be wise not to watch. Irene will kill you.’ 

John nodded quickly in agreement and looked away, though he almost told Mike that he hadn't been watching them because he was a giant perv, he’d been watching and remembering how happy he’d been when Irene had come back on the third day of John’s fourth summer holiday at the resort and made an instant beeline for Janine, ignoring Sherlock completely. God, John had been so pleased that he’d walked around for the whole day with an annoying smile on his face that Sherlock had taken about a million pictures of. 

On second thoughts, John decided, it might be better to keep that little titbit to himself. 

There was a sudden huffing sound and a hand came over the roof. Janine jerked backwards in fear but Sherlock’s head soon popped up, grinning from ear to ear, four wine bottles in his left hand. ‘Regarde, bitches,’ he crowed. ‘Four bottles of my father’s finest wine. You’re welcome.’ 

Irene laughed and grabbed the bottles before helping Sherlock up. The tall boy shook his curly head before plopping himself next to John, taking a bottle and pulling out the cork with his teeth. Janine huffed. ‘Why do you keep getting wine?’ 

‘You get drunker on wine,’ Irene answered as she pulled a cork out of another bottle. ‘And we, my dear, want to get as shit-faced as possible.’ 

Two hours and two bottles later, they were drunk enough that when Irene suggested Truth or Dare they all, even Sherlock, agreed instantly. 

‘Right,’ Irene slurred. Janine’s head was in her lap, and Irene was gently stroking her hair, fingertips pattering on her forehead. ‘Sherlock. Truth or Dare?’ 

‘Truth,’ Sherlock replied. He was leaning heavily on John, who had to put an arm around the younger boy to keep him upright at all: Mike had made several comments about being a loner in the midst of two couples. John had felt a spike of pleasure at that, and then a spike of shame at the thought. 

‘If you had to have sex with one of us, who would it be?’

‘John,’ Sherlock answered instantly. ‘Duh.’ 

John fidgeted uncomfortably as Irene, Janine and Mike laughed. ‘Explain, then,’ Janine giggled. 

‘Irene’s a lesbian, Janine’s out cos I don’t like girls, Mike is my oldest friend and John is the hottest.’ Sherlock lifted his head, grinning drunkenly at the girls. ‘Ergo, _duh._ Hmm. John, truth or dare?’ 

John, who was still trying to get his head around Sherlock saying _I don’t like girls,_ answered vaguely, ‘Dare.’ 

Sherlock hauled himself up and narrowed his eyes. ‘Hmm. Ok. I dare you-‘

‘He’ll choose a pussy dare,’ Janine interrupted. ‘John, have you watched Orange is the New Black?’ 

‘God,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘I love that show.’ 

‘Same,’ Irene grinned, and she and Janine laughed. Mike muttered something about _les homosexuels cornées,_ but Irene ignored him, staring at John. 

‘Hell yeah,’ John replied, putting all thoughts of Sherlock and gayness out of his head, ready for a good old fashioned dare. ‘Why?’ 

‘D’you know that scene where Piper and Alex dance and Piper gets chucked in solitary?’ When John looked blank, she added, ‘In season 1.’ 

‘Yes…’ John said, feeling nervous. Janine clapped her hands together. ‘Do that with Sherlock.’ 

‘ _What?’_ John almost shouted, and Sherlock nodded in response. ‘How are we meant to know that whole dance?’ 

John, who was more surprised by the suggestion that he should dirty dance with Sherlock, stared at his friend in bemusement. 

‘Doesn’t have to be perfect,’ Irene smiled. ‘Mike, put on that song.’ 

Mike dutifully took out his iPhone, found the song and pressed play. 

Sherlock sighed and stood up. ‘John. _Aller.’_

John stared at his best friend’s outstretched hand and thought _fuck it._

It started off awkwardly, with John unsure where to put his hands, but he’d forgotten that Sherlock was a fucking amazing dancer. Even dirty dancing seemed to be his thing, even when he was only fifteen and as sexually unexperienced as a newborn, but there was something about his long limbs, his blue eyes, his playful, drunken smirk, even the too big shirt on a thin body that made John’s brain short-circuit. He actually got into it, following Sherlock’s lead, and the smirk soon faded into something else entirely- 

John didn't realise the music had stopped until Janine cleared her throat and said, ‘Well. That was hot.’ 

Sherlock flung himself back on the ground. ‘Oh, I try.’ 

John sat down next to him, sneaking looks at the other boy every now and then, but Sherlock was staring adamantly away from him. He didn't look at him once for the rest of the game, barely even spoke to him, and John was left to ponder his sexuality for the _billionth fucking time._

God, he was bored with the gay crisis. 

About an hour and another bottle after they started playing, John dared Irene and Janine to go for a ten minute ‘walk’ in the forest. Half an hour after they’d gone, it was obvious they weren't coming back, and Mike sighed as he hauled himself up. ‘I should be going,’ he explained as he gently edged off the roof. ‘I have a volleyball game to referee early in the morning.’

And that left John and Sherlock. 

‘What time is it?’ John asked, hoping, _hoping_ that Sherlock would start speaking to him again. They younger boy clicked on his phone and squinted. ‘Hmm. Deux heures et demi.’ 

‘Half two?’ John guessed, and Sherlock smiled at him. ‘See, John, you are not always _un imbécile.’_

‘You go more French when you’re drunk,’ John laughed, and Sherlock playfully hit his shoulder. ‘Well, the French spend half their time drunk. The wine is exquisite.’ 

‘Can’t argue with that,’ John agreed, and Sherlock reached for the last bottle. He lifted it up, smiling at John with lidded eyes. ‘To friends.’ 

‘Friends,’ John nodded, even though that wasn't the word he would use to describe Sherlock. ‘Course. Friends.’

Sherlock was lying down again, staring off into space. ‘John?’ 

‘Hmm?’ John mumbled as he took a large sip from the bottle. 

‘Are you gay?’ 

John spluttered wine everywhere as he stared at Sherlock. ‘I’m not sure if it’s different here, Sher, but you’re not supposed to ask people that.’ 

Sherlock glanced at John. ‘So that’s a no?’ 

John looked at Sherlock for a long time before eventually saying, ‘It’s not a no.’ He heard Sherlock breathe out very slowly and hastily added, ‘But it’s not a yes.’ 

‘But it’s not a no.’ It wasn't a question, but John nodded anyway. ‘Yes. Um. Why do you ask?’ 

‘Car,’ Sherlock said, and John could hear him moving, sitting up maybe. ‘I didn't want to get instantly shot down when I did this.’ 

The next thing John knew, Sherlock’s lips were pressed against his. 

_He tasted like mint, and ash, and wine._

It was a brief kiss, lasting no more than five seconds, and when Sherlock pulled away (because it is Sherlock who pulls away) he instantly looked terrified. ‘Oh, god,’ John could hear him saying. ‘I didn’t- oh _shit,_ I knew I shouldn't drink with you around-‘

‘Oh, shut up,’ John breathed, and he pulled Sherlock back towards him, crushing their lips together, because _fuck_ his sexuality and _fuck_ his doubts and _fuck_ his reputation because hell, John had wanted to kiss Sherlock all holiday (and for at least a year before that) and he was drunk. It was a brilliant, _brilliant_ combination. 

Sherlock’s tongue in his mouth, Sherlock’s face cupped in his hand, Sherlock’s chest pressed again his. 

_Sherlock._

‘You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,’ John managed to say, but Sherlock just made a disgruntled sound at the back of his throat and pressed John’s lips back against his. ‘Like you said,’ he mumbled against John’s lips, ‘ _Enfermer.’_

And John did. 

It’s the longest he’s ever kissed anybody, and it’s by far, 100% the _best._ Sherlock tasted better, felt better, looked better than any of the girls he’s groped at the discos or hit on in town or even dated (Janette, for three weeks, and then Sarah for two months this year). 

Sherlock was just as eager as John if not more so, kissing and touching and looking at him, and John remembered how cool he thought Sherlock’s eyes were when he first came to the resort, over three years ago. They’re not cool, he thought giddily as he stared into them, they’re _beautiful,_ and it wasn't even weird thinking it about another guy because the other guy’s _Sherlock._ Brilliant, beautiful _Sherlock._

His Sherlock. No one else’s. 

John didn't realise that Sherlock was trying to take off his shirt until one of the buttons rips. At this point John was so completely past caring that he just ripped the whole thing down the middle, tearing his entire shirt like it’s made of paper ( _stupid cheap shirts)_ before resuming kissing Sherlock, touching Sherlock, _wanting_ Sherlock.

Sherlock looked far too good in that too-large white shirt for John to take it off, so he busied himself kissing Sherlock’s lips, his neck, his forehead, with his hands in his hair (Sherlock’s hair is the longest it’s ever been this summer and John _loved_ it) and Sherlock was trying desperately to undo the button on John’s shorts, his hand slipping drunkenly against the silver metal-

‘Fuck me in the arse with a vibrating dildo.’ 

John moved so quickly that he almost fell off the roof, squinting at the roof edge. ‘The _fuck?’_

Irene, with swollen lips and ruffled hair, looked half disgusted and half impressed as she stared at the half-naked John and mussed-up Sherlock. ‘I’m not sure _what_ I was expecting to see, but it sure as fuck wasn't that.’ She frowned. ‘Sort of trumps my _ravishing-Janine-in-the-woods-until-she-came-thrice_ thing, though. Well _done,_ Sherlock.’ 

And suddenly it _hits_ him. 

‘Shit,’ John whispered to himself. Sherlock, lying dazed on the tiles, was completely silent. 

‘I honestly didn't think he had it in him,’ Irene said, shaking her head in amazement. ‘But drink makes you confident. Anyway, John, I thought you weren't gay.’ 

‘I’m- I’m not,’ John replied shakily. 

_So why the hell were you making out with a guy? Why the hell were you about to have sex with a guy?_

Irene rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, right. If I hadn't come back you’d be ravishing him on the roof right now.’ She frowned, examining her nails. ‘Good thing you didn’t, though, the poor baby’s barely fifteen.’ 

_Shit._

Irene was still talking, oblivious to the utter crisis John was having. ‘I mean, Janine and I are both over sixteen, but you and Sherlock…’

John just shook his head, pushing past Irene and shimmying down the drainpipe. He ignored Irene’s shouts, ignored the shocked gasp of the old woman he almost knocked over as he hit the ground and _ran._

_What had he done?_

*

The moment John set foot inside the resort, almost one year since he’d last been there, Irene sprinted up to him and wrapped her arms around him. 

‘The _fuck?_ ’ He swore, almost falling over. Irene wasn't heavy but John was only four inches taller than her ( _damn_ his tiny legs) and shocked. Him and Irene were friends, certainly, but they were by no means the closest in their group of six. Not only this but Irene _didn't hug,_ unless she was going for some sort of sexual conquest, and John was almost certain she wasn’t. 

Irene released him and smiled widely. ‘Thank god you’re here, Watson. It’s totally _dead._ ’ 

John frowned. One of the A.T’s had taken their luggage to the room and Jenny had gone to find Paul, Mike’s father. The two of them were very good friends and had been since the first year the Watson family had gone to the resort: John half suspected there was something else going on there. ‘What do you mean, dead?’ 

Irene rolled her eyes, taking John’s hand (a group of _les enfants_ gasped in the corner) and pulling him towards the main pool. ‘Mike’s doing work experience in Paris until next month and I’m _so bored._ ’ 

‘What about Janine? You and her were certainly friendly last year-‘

Irene wrinkled her nose. ‘Been there, done that. My newest…conquest is Molly.’ 

John’s eyebrows shot up. ‘ _Molly?_ Our Molly?’ 

Irene shrugged. ‘Why not? She’s sixteen now and, as far as I know, single. Sherlock thinks she’s curious as well, so I’m basically halfway there. The poor thing is a bit dull, though, and Janine feels slighted because I don't want to fuck her this year.’ Irene sighed loudly, lifting the hand that wasn't holding John’s towards the sky. ‘Not to quote Sherlock, but _so bored._ ’ 

John raised his eyebrows but didn't comment, focusing on what Irene had said about Sherlock. ‘But…Sherlock’s here?’ 

‘Course,’ Irene huffed. ‘Sherlock’s always here in the summer. He’s _needed._ ’ 

‘You and him get on so well, though,’ John replied. ‘Why aren't you hanging around with him?’ 

Irene fixed him with a mutinous glare. ‘You’ll see in a moment.’ 

‘Woah, woah, woah,’ John said, stopping immediately. ‘You’re bringing me to _Sherlock?’_

Irene sighed. ‘Why, are you scared it will be awkward because you abandoned him on the roof after heavily making out with him, left the next day without saying goodbye and then didn't contact him for a year?’ When John looked guilty, Irene smiled smugly. ‘He told me when I first got here, about a month ago. He was pretty torn up about it, _still,_ but he…he seems to have let it go.’ 

‘Oh,’ John said, trying not to sound disappointed ( _why the fuck did he still feel disappointed?)._ ‘What, in the last few weeks?’ 

Irene pushed open the gate to the main pool and gestured towards a pair of sun beds at the far end. ‘Let’s just say he’s found a distraction.’ 

John followed Irene to the end of the pool. About halfway there, John recognised the boy on the first sun bed as Sherlock, albeit longer and thinner (scarily thinner, really) and with even longer hair than last summer, but the boy (man?) on the other bed was a stranger.

Irene stopped directly in front of the bed and coughed. ‘Sherlock?’ 

Sherlock, who was typing on a new Macbook laptop, grunted. Irene whacked the laptop closed, and Sherlock looked up, staring at her in annoyance. ‘God, Irene, what?’

The boy on the other bed was looking at John, who stared back as defiantly as he could. The boy was clearly older than Sherlock by at least a year, with slicked-back dark hair and dead brown eyes. Whilst Sherlock was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, this boy was wearing full on chinos and a shirt, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses balanced on his head.  

John hated him instantly.  

‘Look who’s here!’ Irene grinned, and John awkwardly smiled. He hadn't exactly planned what he was going to say when he saw Sherlock (he hadn't even decided if he wanted to see the boy), although he had expected it to be tense, difficult and a bit _sad._

Sherlock fixed John with a bored gaze. ‘Hello.’ 

John furrowed his eyebrows. ‘Um. Hi?’ 

Sherlock opened his laptop. ‘Great, now that’s done you can go away.’ 

‘Fuck, Sherlock, what is your _problem?’_ Irene almost spat. ‘Seriously, what’s stuck up your butt?’ 

The boy on the other bed laughed and then spoke for the first time, in a soft Irish lilt not dissimilar from Janine’s. ‘Oh, Miss Adler, wouldn't you like to know.’ 

Sherlock blushed, delicate pink decorating pale cheeks, and John felt angrier than he’d been for a long, _long_ time. 

The boy cocked his head at John and narrowed his eyes, perfectly mimicking Sherlock’s deducing look, before smiling coldly and nodding at the far end of the pool. ‘Sherlock wants you gone.’ 

‘I’ll go when Sherlock tells me too,’ John snapped back. ‘Sherlock?’ 

Now, John was aware that things had changed between he and Sherlock. He knew that he had acted abysmally, that he had really hurt Sherlock and hadn't even tried to apologise or even talk about it. He knew that Sherlock was angry, but he didn't in a million years think Sherlock would say without even looking up, ‘I want you gone. Go. _Aller._ Get out.’

There was a stunned silence. Irene looked surprised, John felt awful, and the boy’s snake smile widened. ‘You heard the man.’ 

Irene grabbed John’s hand, pulling him away. ‘He’s not a man,’ she said as they walked off, but Sherlock wasn't listening. Instead, the boy had pulled his head towards him and was whispering in his ear, Sherlock grinning broadly, and John knew the image would be forever branded in his mind. 

‘Who _is_ that?’ John asked, and Irene mock-shuddered. ‘ _Jim Moriarty._ He’s Janine’s cousin.’ 

‘And Sherlock likes him? Sherlock doesn't like anyone.’ 

Irene kicked a pebble as she led him behind the Teen Club Quad, into a small space behind the trees they had used the previous summer to go and drink, smoke and bicker by. ‘I thought so too, but the moment Sherlock laid eyes on him…it was like love at first sight.’ They entered the Quad and John nodded at Janine, who scowled at Irene, and Molly, who blushed when she saw Irene. There was another boy there, sprawled against a log, and John’s heart stopped when he saw the boy from the sun bed-

Irene, as if reading his thoughts, quickly said, ‘This is Richard. Jim’s brother.’ 

Richard shuddered, sticking his tongue out at Irene, as he stuck out his hand. ‘Dick.’ 

John suppressed a snicker and Dick smiled widely. ‘Yeah, I know, but with a brother like Jim Moriarty you _need_ something that makes you stand out.’ 

‘He’s bad news,’ Irene said as she sat next to Molly. ‘Tell John about him, Richard.’ John glanced at her and she smirked. ‘I can’t call him _Dick,_ I’m a lesbian.’ 

‘Basically,’ Dick said as if she’d never spoken, ‘Jim’s a genius. Like, a certified genius, but he’s evil. He already has this little gang, I’m pretty sure he’s organised murders, and he’s scary as hell to be around. I’m his twin and he scares me.’ Dick paused, and looked at John closely. ‘You’re the boy who Sherlock was in love with?’ 

John shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don't know if I would say in love-‘

‘Yeah,’ Irene interrupted. ‘Sherlock was infatuated, and then _he_ broke his heart.’ She glared at him like it was John’s fault…though that was technically true. It _was_ John’s fault.

John put his head in the hands. 

‘We go home at the end of August, and then Jim’ll be gone,’ Dick continued. John’s heart sank. ‘So do I.’ 

Dick shrugged. ‘Bad luck for you, mate.’ 

There was a pause, in which John regretted all of his life choices, and then Irene turned to Molly and said, ‘Are you going to have sex with me tonight?’ 

Molly went a deep burgundy colour. ‘Wha- _no._ ’ 

‘Didn’t think so,’ Irene sighed. ‘Janine?’ 

‘I’m not your sloppy seconds, Irene Adler,’ Janine snapped. Irene simply raised one eyebrow and held out her hand: Janine hesitated before taking it and following Irene out of the bushes. 

Molly burst into tears and ran in the opposite direction. 

‘Well,’ Dick said, ‘That was entertaining. See you around, John.’ 

And just like that John was alone. 

/four weeks later/ 

It had been the most miserable summer of John’s life. 

At the beginning, he’d been sure that he would have a good time without Sherlock, but that was clearly _not true._ He supposed it hadn't been as bad as it could have been (he’d spent most of his time with Irene, who, it turned out, was actually wickedly funny and just the girl John would have gone for if she wasn't gay and he wasn’t…whatever he was) but it just wasn't the same without Sherlock. 

It didn't help that he saw the younger boy everywhere, walking with Jim Moriarty, eating with Jim Moriarty, talking with Jim Moriarty. John tried not to look, he really didn’t, but he couldn't _help_ it. 

John had learnt a lot in the four weeks he’d been at the resort. Without Sherlock, he and Irene had spent most of their time with the Teen Club, and John had learned to tie a proper sailing knot, play checkers and do the entire _hoedown throwdown_ dance from beginning to end. 

In the last two weeks of his holiday especially he’d spent every waking minute with Irene, and they’d really bonded. He’d learned that although Irene was going for Molly, she was mostly just trying to get back at Janine, who’d arrived at the beginning of July and announced that she had a _boyfriend._

‘I like her,’ Irene had said on numerous occasions, and then blushed and shaken her head vehemently. ‘I mean-‘

‘You like her,’ John smiled. ‘That’s not a problem.’ 

‘It is a problem,’ Irene snapped, chucking her shoe across the room, ‘Because she doesn't like me back.’ 

John had also learned from Harriet, who was at home ‘studying’ (drinking), that somebody from their Dad’s old work who was still in touch with him had found out that their father’s girlfriend had had twins in early August. John had thought about this a lot, thinking about his father at home with newborns and a toddler, especially after Harry had called a few days after John arrived at the resort to tell him that ‘Dad told me their names. The twins are Daniel Hamish and Eleanor Harriet, for Christ’s sake. He wants to see us, Johnny, he misses us.’ 

This did not make it easier for John. At all. 

The last thing John learned on the holiday was that he was totally and irrevocably in love with Sherlock Holmes.

It hit him the first time Irene said that she liked Janine. John had nodded, replying, ‘Just like I like Sherlock,’ and Irene had huffed. ‘No, John, it’s not. Every time I look at her my stomach feels tight, every time she speaks I want to listen forever, every time we touch my skin feels like it’s on _fire._ ’ She’d then blushed, because the words were totally _non-Irene,_ and smiled seductively. ‘Nothing like you and Sherlock.’

Except, John thought, it was exactly like him and Sherlock. Every time he looked at Sherlock he didn't seem able to breathe, every time Sherlock talked he was caught, even if it was about the most boring thing in the world (243 types of ash, even), every time they touched John felt those electric sparks. 

He’d been an idiot not to realise it sooner, because now he was _fucked._

Sherlock had met someone else who he seemed to like _far_ more than he’d ever liked John, even if everybody else could see the boy was a prick. Not that John could judge- he’d treated Sherlock awfully and now he was dealing with the consequences. 

The last day rolled around quickly. The resort officially shut on the 31st, which was also when John was leaving, and at midday the whole camp gathered together to say goodbye.

Mike, who’d only arrived two days previously but was staying on with Sherlock for an extra two weeks smiled and patted him on the shoulder. ‘Au revoir, Jean. I hope to be seeing you next year?’ 

John nodded, because even if Sherlock hated him he loved the resort, from the activities to the people to the rooms (after the disastrous first year Sherlock’s mother had reserved them a suite every single summer) and he had no intention of giving it up. 

Dick came up next, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him in for a man-hug. ‘Nice meeting you, John. I’m sorry about my brother.’ He glanced to his right, where Jim and Sherlock were standing so close that John was almost certain their foreheads were touching. ‘But you seemed to have a good time with Irene and us, eh?’

John nodded politely and Dick wandered off to join his family. John leant against a post, looking around at all of the tourists and tried not to look at Sherlock and Jim (badly). 

‘Penny for your thoughts?’ 

John jolted out of his reverie and smiled down at Molly. ‘Alright, Mol.’ 

Molly smiled shyly (even after knowing her since he was twelve, John had never seen Molly Hooper confident) and glanced at Sherlock. ‘I know how you feel, John.’ 

John raised an eyebrow but when Molly glanced to her right, John realised what she meant. Irene and Janine were in the corner, totally caught up in each other, and John sighed as he watched Molly’s face crumple. ‘Everything’s so complicated, isn't it?’ 

‘And gay,’ Molly said. ‘I swear, none of our pairings are _straight.’_

John sniggered. ‘We’d have a great TV show. _Complicated and gay.’_

Molly’s younger brother, a freckly boy with a huge smile and brown hair, yelled for her and she stepped away from John. ‘Have a good year,’ she said, and John stuck his hands in his pocket. ‘I’ll try.’ 

John watched Molly walk away and then Janine follow her, Irene staring after her like a love-sick puppy. When Irene caught John watching she sauntered over to him, though she seemed less confident than usual. ‘Hiya, perv.’ 

‘That was quite a display,’ John replied. ‘I can almost see the film: _Dear Irene._ ’ 

‘Shut up.’ Irene playfully punched John in the shoulder, but her heart wasn't in it and she sighed. ‘She says that she won’t do anything but I’m not sure. Like, she’s not gay, she’s only sixteen and she’s a bit of a slag.’ 

John gaped, scarcely believing his ears. ‘Did you just call her a _slag?’_

‘Oi,’ Irene growled. ‘I’m not a slag. Dominatrix.’

 John smiled and was about to say something witty back when there was a sudden cheer and catcalls. ‘What the-‘ Irene said, before breaking off with a small, ‘Oh.’ 

John followed her gaze and instantly wished he hadn’t. 

Sherlock and Jim, locked in a passionate embrace, Jim’s tongue in Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock’s hands curled against his chest. As John watched, Jim opened one eye, looked directly at John and _winked_. 

John felt like he was going to throw up.

’Right,’ Irene said, and as John tore his eyes away from Sherlock he noticed that she looked angrier than he had ever seen. ‘He’s overstepped the boundary. That’s _fucking it._ ’ She tossed her hair, grabbed John’s hand, placed it on her waist and then stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. 

John was so surprised that he froze: Irene broke away, rolled her eyes, and said, ‘Come _on,_ dummy, I’m trying to help you.’ 

John had no idea what she was doing but went along with it, partially because now everyone was looking and partially because she might have been a lesbian who clearly had no urge to sleep with him, but Irene was a _fabulous_ kisser.  

They only stopped kissing when Gideon, the chief of staff, laughed self-consciously and said, ‘Come on guys. Let’s keep it PG, there are kids here.’ 

Irene separated herself from John before pecking him once more on his lips and backing away. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she laughed, ‘I just can’t stop kissing him. Young love and all.’ 

‘ _Aw,_ ’ most of the adults said collectively. John caught his mum’s eye: she looked more confused than John felt. 

‘ _Ew,’_ most of the children grimaced. ‘Irene gave John _cooties._ ’ 

‘Bye, John!’ Irene yelled, as she followed her parents away. ‘I’ll miss you! Call me!’ 

John shook his head, completely oblivious to what was going on. How had kissing him helped? Why had she done it? What, exactly, would it accomplish-

And then John caught Sherlock’s eye, and saw all the pain and misery and disbelief that he had felt as he watched Jim and the younger boy kissing just ten minutes earlier. 

_Oh._

John regretted what he did next for the rest of his life, but he was angry and hurt and in _pain._

John turned away from Irene and shouted, ‘I’ll miss you more!’ And then, seeing the wince on Sherlock’s face, ‘I love you!’ 

‘ _Aw,_ ’ said most of the adults. 

‘ _Ew,_ ’ grimaced most of the children. 

Irene turned around and did a thumbs up, realising that John had cottoned on. ‘Love you too, Johnny!’ 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and John felt a bitter stab of joy. 

_Let him cry. Now he knows how it feels._

John turned away from Sherlock and stepped out of the resort, guilt and vengeance twisting in his gut. 

*

John had been back at the resort for almost a week when he was woken up in the dead of the night by a knock on the door. 

Him and his mother met in the corridor and John silently put his fingers to his lips, gesturing behind him. At a month short of his eighteenth birthday, John was small but strong, with a toned torso and muscular arms, and Jenny gladly stepped behind him. 

John opened the door slowly, because just as it might be a robber or burglar or murderer (though would a murderer knock on the door?) it might be Irene or Mike or one of his mother’s friends, who had left something in their room. ‘Hello?’ He said cautiously. ‘Is there anybody there?’ 

‘It’s Siger,’ a voice came back, and John frowned. He had no idea why Sherlock’s dad would be at his door in the middle of the night, but opened up the door further. ‘Um. Hi?’ 

Siger brushed past. His white hair was mussed up and John was pretty sure he was wearing his pyjamas, but he didn't seem bothered by this as he said to Jenny, ‘Have you seen or heard anything in the past few hours?’ 

John glanced at the clock in the hallway and groaned inwardly at the time: ten to three in the morning in the morning. Jenny, meanwhile, shook her head and said in confusion, ‘No?’ 

Siger closed his eyes. ‘Oh.’ 

‘What’s happened?’ John asked curiously, and Siger shook his head. ‘I don’t- oh, fuck it, someone’s made off into the night with fifty thousand pounds from the safe and the plans for our Spanish resort.’ 

John and Jenny simultaneously gasped. Siger nodded, and John was shocked to see tears pricking his eyes. ‘It’s- it’s not good.’

‘Can we do anything?’ Jenny instantly volunteered, and John nodded. The resort was like a second home to him and he couldn't believe someone would do something like that: how could they be that cruel? 

‘Um-‘ Siger hesitated. ‘No, go back to sleep.’

‘I’m not going to be able to sleep anyway,’ John said, and Jenny nodded in agreement. Siger smiled, sniffing a bit. ‘In that case, any help would be appreciated. I’m going to the rooms by the exits: I’ve already done three, there are three more to do.’ 

‘I’ll do them,’ Jenny said, and Siger nodded in thanks. ‘Thank you _so_ much. It’s rooms 221, 189 and    852. John, would you come with me? The team’s rendezvoused in the Teen Club Quad.’ When John looked confused, Siger explained, ‘It’s the only room with fully-functioning air conditioning.’ 

As they walked to the Quad after John had flung on a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, Siger explained what had happened. ‘The security guard tipped us off about an hour ago: he said he saw two or three shapes sprinting out of the resort into an awaiting car. We got up and checked the safe just to be sure and found the plans missing: about half an hour later, Violet got a mandatory text from the bank saying that fifty thousand pounds had been withdrawn. Two of her credit cards were missing.’ 

John whistled. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘My sentiments exactly,’ Siger said quietly. ‘This is- this could be cataclysmic for the resort. The money isn't as much as a problem as the plans, because without the plans I don't know if we can continue with the Spanish resort. It’s got all our plans, all our information, _everything._ If it falls through…’ He drifted into silence, and John bit his lip. This sounded serious. _Really_ serious. 

Siger opened the door to the Quad and several A.T’s as well as Violet turned around. ‘I recruited John and Jenny,’ Siger said. ‘I thought they’d be helpful-‘

‘We need everybody we can,’ Violet said. She looked terrible: worried and pale and sick with anxiety. ‘Thank you so much, John.’ 

‘Don’t mention it,’ John said awkwardly, and Siger left his side to go and sit by his wife, taking her hand and stroking it softly. John fiddled with his hands awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say, when a low, posh voice said in his ear, ‘Why, John Watson. You are quite grown up.’

John jumped and then calmed down when he recognised the man behind him. ‘Mycroft. You scared the _shit_ out of me.’ 

Mycroft sniffed. ‘Lovely phrasing. I don't remember you being quite so… _cursey_.’ 

John smiled and turned away from Mycroft. ‘You haven't seen me in four years. You don't know me.’ 

‘Really?’ Mycroft grinned in that snake-like way that Sherlock adopted when he was about to deduce someone (how did John still remember that?). ‘Studying psychology, chemistry and biology at A level, did history at AS level. Alcoholic older sister in secret rehab, not in touch with father, virgin, question sexuality. How did I do?’ 

John, who was long used to the Holmes boys deducing, simply said, ‘Do they know who did it?’ 

Mycroft’s smile faded and he looked away. ‘Not officially, but I have my suspicions.’ 

A very tanned, smiling french man with fluffy brown hair came up behind Mycroft, casually touching his waist as he said, ‘ Vous aviez besoin, ma chérie. Votre père vous veut là-bas, l'organisation de la chose déclaration de la police.’ He made a face before kissing Mycroft on the cheek. ‘Je ne comprende pas.’ 

Mycroft blushed before nodding, and John raised an eyebrow. ‘Got yourself a beau, Mycroft?’ 

‘You know Greg,’ Mycroft said, looking embarrassed. John frowned, trying to place the name, before gasping. ‘ _Lestrade?’_

Mycroft smiled coldly. ‘I see Sherlock still refuses to call him by his Christian name. Or did, two years ago.’ He looked at John, judging his reaction, before sighing. ‘Go and find Sherlock. See if he’s alright. We woke him up and told him what had happened and he…well. Find out for yourself. He’s outside, I think, by the children’s playground.’ 

John tried to protest but Mycroft had already walked away. He looked around, looking for someone who would understand, but the nearest person was Lestrade, who clearly didn't speak English, so he just squared his shoulders and went outside. 

 _I mean,_ he thought as he stepped out of the Quad, _how bad could it be?_

Sherlock was sitting at the top of the slide and even in the dark John was astounded by his appearance. Sherlock had never been fat, never had even a tiny bit of puppy fat, even when they were twelve, but he was so thin now that the biologist in John was worried every time he looked at him. His eyes had lost their sparkle, his clothes were all too big, and his face was so sallow and bony that John thought it would hurt to touch him.  

John stomped a bit to make it clear that he was there, climbing the structure and then sitting next to Sherlock. He noticed the younger boy’s arms were rolled up and caught a glimpse of the bloody mass of scars that were now Sherlock’s left arm; he closed his eyes and looked away ( _it’s none of your business anymore)_ , before saying softly, ‘Heya, Sherlock.’ 

Sherlock didn't even look up.

John cleared his throat. ‘Mycroft sent me to see if you were ok-‘

‘It was Jim.’ 

John almost fell of the structure, grabbing onto a bar to stay on. ‘ _What?’_

‘It was Jim,’ Sherlock said monotonously. ‘Jim and Sherrinford. Mycroft knows about Sherrinford, but not Jim.’ 

‘How- how do you know?’ John was so confused that he couldn't even register that he and Sherlock were talking for the first time in almost _two years,_ talking like nothing had happened, like they were still John-and-Sherlock, Sherlock-and-John, but there was no time for that as Sherlock said, ‘He wasn't there when I woke up. We were sharing a bed,’ John winced in the darkness, ‘And he was gone when I woke up. When he didn't come back I got worried, so I dressed and came outside. He was waiting outside the main building, and I watched Sherrinford come out and then I saw them leave. I didn't think much of it, I thought-‘ his voice caught, and John could almost hear the tears in his voice as he continued, ‘I thought they might be doing something for me, but when my father woke me up-‘ He dissolved into tears and John didn't even hesitate before reaching an arm around the younger boy. ‘God, Sherlock.’ 

‘I-I- _how could he?’_

John shook his head, stroking back Sherlock’s hair. ‘I don't know, Sherlock, I don't know.’ 

Sherlock was crying properly now, head buried in John’s shoulder. ‘I thought I _loved_ him. I thought he _loved_ me, John.’ 

John ignored stabbing sensation in his heart, instead saying quietly, ‘He doesn't deserve your love if he’s doing something like this. He doesn't fucking deserve you, Sherlock.’ 

‘He’s _exactly_ what I deserve,’ Sherlock said bitterly. ‘I’m a fucking _freak,_ and I deserve someone who clearly only used me for- for- _oh, god.’_

It was breaking John’s heart to watch, and he realised that this, what he was feeling right now, was what love _actually_ was. Love was wanting the other person to be happy, even when their happiness was breaking your heart: love was being willing to watch the other person loving someone else, because as long as they were smiling _you_ were smiling.

Love was wanting to murder anybody who made the other person sad: love was being willing to murder, even when you were aware of the consequences.

John watched Sherlock crying in his arms and he knew that this was _it._ He couldn't stay away from Sherlock anymore, he _couldn’t,_ and he needed to take action, because even from a distance he had seen Sherlock self destructing and he’d done _nothing._ That was over. John needed to act, act now, before it was too late.

Sherlock was reduced to a crying mess in John’s arms and John couldn't let Sherlock continue like that- he _couldn’t,_ because Sherlock needed to be alright. 

Sherlock _had_ to be alright. 

‘I’ve watched you destruct from a distance for a year,’ John whispered into Sherlock’s hair, ‘And I can’t let that happen anymore.’ 

‘W-what?’ Sherlock mumbled, and John just shook his head. ‘I need to go.’  

‘No!’ Sherlock shouted, gripping John tighter, then, more quietly, ‘No. Please, John, ne me quitte pas.’ 

John smiled for the first time, though tears were now streaming down his face, and he whispered, ‘Why do you speak French around me when you know I don't speak it?’ 

‘Because,’ Sherlock whispered, hiccuping slightly, ‘You always know what I mean, regardless of the language I’m speaking.’ 

John didn't ( _couldn’t)_ say anything to that: instead, he settled down again, pulling Sherlock closer to him, shutting his brain off and just feeling _Sherlock._

And that was how they stayed, arms wrapped around each other, touching and seeing and _being,_ and when Sherlock fell asleep John gently untangled himself and climbed off the structure, trying hard not to disturb Sherlock. He then crept into the Quad, where there were still people running around and talking and shouting, and walked over to Mycroft, who was writing something down in the corner. 

Here, John bent over Mycroft’s shoulder and told him about Sherlock in as low a voice as he could. John told him about Sherrinford and Jim, told him about the plans and the money, but he also told him everything that Irene had been telling him since the previous August. John told him about the smoking and the drugs, the cocaine hidden in his sock drawer, the heroin in the bathroom cabinet. John told him that Sherlock wasn't eating, _properly_ not eating, and John told him about the self-harming and the depression and even the suicidal thoughts that Sherlock would relate to Irene at two in the morning. 

John told Mycroft about Sherlock, and then he turned and walked away. He walked back to his bedroom, he lay in his bed, and he spent the night thinking about Sherlock and wishing, _wishing,_ he’d done the last two years differently, because maybe, _maybe,_ Sherlock would be ok, now.

It was a hard truth, but it _was_ the truth. Sherlock wouldn't be broken if it wasn't for John. 

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was gone. 

*

The first thing John saw when he arrived at the resort was Sherlock, sprinting up from the lake towards him.

The first thing John did when he arrived at the resort was drop his suitcase and envelop Sherlock in the biggest hug he could, arms around his back, nose buried in his hair. 

They stood like that for several minutes, hugging in the entrance, and John didn't even realise Harry or his mum leaving, Harry with a dry comment and Jenny with a knowing smile. Nothing mattered in that moment but Sherlock, his Sherlock, touching and hearing and seeing his Sherlock again. 

_Finally._

It was Sherlock that pulled away, self-consciously running his hand through his hair as he said, ‘You’re late.’ 

John laughed, because it was such a _Sherlock_ thing to say, and shrugged. ‘Can’t do anything about delayed planes.’ 

Sherlock huffed. ‘Damn those delayed planes. I’ll send them hate mail.’  

‘You do that.’ John laughed again, one hand still clutching Sherlock’s shoulder, and _God_ had he missed him. ‘God, Sher, you look…’

Sherlock smiled and struck a stupid pose, eyes twinkling. ‘I know, I’m fabulous.’ 

‘You are!’ John grinned, and he was surprised to feel tears pricking his eyes. ‘Fuck, you are.’

Sherlock and John had been talking again since about mid-October of the previous year: it had been Sherlock who got in contact, from the clinic. It had arrived on a normal Sunday in the post: it was an incredibly formal letter which John suspected Sherlock had been made to write as part of his recovery, but John had replied and then Sherlock had replied and they’d written as often as they could. 

John had checked the post first thing every day, hoping he’d hear from Sherlock. 

Sherlock had been discharged in April, and they’d started Skyping, but it was different seeing him in person. He seemed taller, now there was some meat on his bones, and his hair was a bit shorter so John could really, actually see his eyes. 

_His eyes…_

He looked happier, healthier and _better,_ and it made John feel better, to see him like that. 

He even seemed more confident as he carried John’s suitcase to his room, jabbering on about something Irene had said or something Mike had done, and John wasn't even listening, just watching Sherlock being animated, talking and laughing and being _Sherlock_ for the first time since he was fifteen- 

John suddenly stopped, and Sherlock doubled back. ‘What are you doing?’ 

‘Your birthday present!’ John dug around in his backpack. ‘I was going to give it to you as soon as we arrived but you distracted me.’ 

‘I have a distracting personality,’ Sherlock admitted as John withdrew the crumpled present. ‘Go on, open it.’ 

Sherlock eagerly ripped off the paper, before withdrawing the present and looking confused. ‘What the hell is this?’ 

‘A deerstalker,’ John said. ‘I thought it’d look good on you.’ He blushed, but Sherlock was far too busy fiddling with the ears. ‘Why does it not have a front?’ 

‘It does,’ John laughed. ‘Do you- do you like it? I mean, I get it’s not really a meaningful present but-‘

‘If it’s from you,’ Sherlock smiled, ‘So I like it.’ And with that he jammed the deerstalker onto his head, picked up the suitcase and marched onwards. ‘Allons-y, John. We have things to do.’ 

Smiling like a madman, John followed him. 

It was the best summer of John’s life. 

Every single bit was _perfect._ Nothing, _nothing,_ could have gone better. Their entire group was reunited, and for some reason (maybe because they were all older and mature, maybe because Sherlock and John’s calm and happy vibe affected the rest of them) everything was totally peaceful. Irene wasn't even bothered when Janine announced she was in love with a boy called Callum from home: Sherlock said that she and Molly, who had been at the resort since early June, had been getting closer and closer. Mike had a girlfriend, a sweet French girl from a small village near the resort called Claudette, and spent half his time talking to her and half his time talking about her, and Sherlock and John were _together._

It wasn't in that way, at first. They were just together, in the innocent sense, like they’d been when they were children and happy. Everything was simple, everything was perfect, and John was content with it just as it was. 

Except, at the same time, it wasn't simple and it wasn't just like it had been when they were children. There were too many illicit glances, too much touching, too much staring, and John noticed it from Sherlock just as much as Sherlock noticed it from him. It gave him hope, as the summer progressed, that maybe, _maybe,_ it wasn't just John.

Maybe, _maybe,_ Sherlock felt it too. 

About halfway through the summer, John and Sherlock found themselves alone at the bar in the early hours of the morning. There was soft music playing, few people left in the bar and the lights were dim: perfect, just like everything else from that summer. Since both were eighteen they both had drinks, though Sherlock was barely touching his (he preferred to stay away from intoxicating substances since he’d gone through the clinic) and John didn't particularly want to get drunk. 

John was talking about his A level exams, and Sherlock was just watching him with that look he got when he was actually, really happy. His eyes became lighter, crinkles formed around them and his mouth slid into a half-smile: it warmed John’s heart to know that he was the one who produced that look in Sherlock’s eyes. 

_Him, and only him._

‘Are you even listening?’ John teased, and Sherlock just smiled wider and nodded. ‘Of course. I always listen to you.’ 

John leaned forward, smiling back. ‘Is that so? Because, as I remember it, you don't listen to _anyone._ ’ 

Sherlock laughed, and John was so close that he felt the warmth of his breath on his face. ‘You’re an exception, John.’ He paused, blinked, and said quietly, ‘You’re an exception to all of me.’ 

‘So are you,’ John murmured, and in that moment it seemed to only be them in the bar, staring into each others eyes. ‘To my rules, I mean.’ 

‘Why is that?’ Sherlock whispered, and John was far too lost in his eyes to react, say anything, _do_ anything sensible. ‘I don't know, but it’s- it’s _not_ good.’

Sherlock’s half-smile reappeared. ‘And why is it not good?’ 

‘Because,’ John breathed, ‘It makes me want to do _this.’_

It was inevitable, John thought giddily, as he leaned forwards and touched his lips to Sherlock’s. They’d been waiting for it for the last month, waiting for this moment, and it was _everything_ John could have wanted. 

_Sherlock tasted like strawberries._

It was nothing like that first drunken kiss, the one they’d exchanged when they were fifteen. It was _so much better,_ sweeter, and John fell in love all over again, as he kissed Sherlock’s lips and touched his hand to Sherlock’s cheek-

Sherlock pulled back, lips swollen, eyes sparkling, and said, ‘Is this real?’ 

John didn't answer. Instead, he took Sherlock’s face in his hands and he kissed him again, and he tried to put everything, _everything,_ he had felt towards Sherlock since they had met into the kiss.

He put his joy, his happiness, his sorrow, his anger, his love, his heartbreak, his confusion, _everything._ The kiss was his and Sherlock’s friendship, _relationship,_ but most of all it was an apology. 

 _I’m sorry,_ the kiss said. _I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for sending you to James Moriarty. I’m sorry for leaving you on that roof, and I’m sorry for ignoring you. I’m so, so sorry, and I want to make it up to you._

_Please let me make it up to you._

This time, John broke away, and Sherlock just stared at him, his beautiful eyes saying _I forgive you._

They didn't have sex, that night. There would be time for that later, both of them knew that, and so they slept in Sherlock’s bed, like they’d done when they were children, except now John could hold Sherlock in his arms and call him _his._

There was no need to make it official. There was no need: John knew that Sherlock was his, Sherlock knew that John was his, and it was obvious to everyone around them that they belonged to each other. They always had done, really, because if anybody in the world were soulmates it was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

Sherlock-and-John, John-and-Sherlock. 

Irene teased, but when Molly plucked up the courage to ask her to be her girlfriend a few days after it stopped abruptly. John was happy for Irene and Molly, really happy, because as different as they were they seemed to belong together. Molly toned Irene down, Irene brought out Molly’s funner side, and they made each other happy. In those three weeks that John saw Molly and Irene together, John saw both of them smile more than he’d ever seen either of them smile before. 

There were jokes from Mike and some of the younger teens, pretending to be surprised, but John hadn't cared. From the moment he had stepped on the resort that July, him and Sherlock had been inevitable. Hell, from the moment John had stepped on the resort that July six years ago, when he was only twelve years old, him and Sherlock had been inevitable. 

On their last night together before John went home for his first year at Uni and Sherlock went to Oxford for his third year (he’d started at the age of sixteen, two years early) they lay on Sherlock’s bed, staring at the stars through his skylight. They’d both been dreading the end, and now Sherlock’s hand crept into John’s as he said, ‘What now?’ 

John turned on his side and touched Sherlock’s face gently. ‘Now, we stay together. That’s what we do.’ 

Sherlock ducked his head, and John saw a tear fall onto his sheet. ‘I don't want you to leave.’ 

John waited a moment, not trusting himself to speak, before saying hoarsely, ‘And I don't want to leave. God, Sherlock, I don’t.’ He paused. ‘But I have to.’ 

‘I _hate_ the summer,’ Sherlock spat. ‘Because it’s brilliant. Fucking brilliant, and then it ends, and you have to go. It deceives you into thinking everything will be ok, and then it takes it all away at the end.’ 

John smiled despite himself and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, tilting his chin so he could look him in the eye. ‘Actually, I love the summer. Summer’s the best bit of the year: it’s the bit where me and you are together. It’s the one time in the year when I’m _happy._ I’m hopeful, and happy, and I think everything’s going to be ok, when it’s summer.’ 

Sherlock stared up at him, eyes reflecting the moon, which was directly above them. ‘It’s not the summer that brings hope and happiness, John, it’s _you. You’re_ my summer.’ 

‘Except,’ John whispered, ‘I don’t last for two months. I last _forever._ ’ 

Sherlock sniffed, and as he stared up at John, he saw that twelve year old boy who’d made sarcastic comments in French at him, and he loved him more for that. ‘Promise?’ 

John nodded, deadly serious. ‘I promise.’ 

This was when Sherlock kissed him, softly and seriously, and murmured, ‘Vous êtes mon été, et mon soleil, et mon amour. Je t’aime.’ 

‘I don’t speak French,’ John whispered back, ‘But I love you too.’ 

And Sherlock kissed him again, as the moon trickled through the open skylight, and in that moment John knew that he would never love someone more than he loved Sherlock, not for as long as he would live. 

**French translations:**

**Age 12**

Bonjour! Bienvenue aux adolescents Club! Comment t’appelle vous?’ - Hello! Welcome to the Teenagers club! What are you called?’ 

‘Etes-vous stupide, ou pouvez-vous pas parler français?’ - Are you stupid, or can you not speak French? 

‘Ne soyez pas impoli , Sherlock , le garçon est clairement d' une intelligence supérieure à la moyenne. Regardez sa coupe de cheveux!’ - Do not be rude, Sherlock, the boy is clearly of above-average intelligence. Look at his haircut! 

 _les enfants -_ the children

 _le milieu -_ the middle

l _es aînés -_ the elder

‘Je ne parle pas le francais.’ - I do not speak French

‘Est-ce que vous ne jouez pas?’ - Are you not playing? 

‘Plus tard. Je suis un peu fatigué.’ - Later. I am a little tired. 

 ‘Que dit-il?’ - What did he say? 

‘Il est juste d'être arrogants’ - He is just being arrogant 

‘Est-il amusant, sucer la bite de mon frère, ou est trop gros pour être confortable?’ - is it fun, sucking my brother’s cock, or is it too fat for you to be comfortable? 

‘ _mon ami.’ -_ my friend 

**Age 13**

‘ _Mon dieu’-_ my God

‘L'amour est un défaut chimique, trouvé sur le côté perdant.’ - Love is a chemical defect, found on the losing side. 

**_Les meilleurs amis doivent appeler les meilleurs amis_ ** _\- best friends should call best friends_

**Age 14**

‘Mais ma loyauté est avec la France, John Watson, et tu.’ - But my loyalty is with France, John Watson, and you. 

Je t'ai. Je t'ai eu. Je suis avec vous, John - I have you. I’ve got you. I am with you, John. 

**Age 15**

‘C’est vrai’ - it is true

‘Je ne sais pas,’ - I do not know

‘regarde’ - look 

 _les homosexuels cornées -_ horny gays

‘ _Aller’ -_ Let’s go. 

‘Car’ - because

‘ _Enfermer’ -_ Shut up 

‘Au revoir’ - Goodbye

**Age 17**

‘Vous aviez besoin, ma chérie. Votre père vous veut là-bas, l'organisation de la chose déclaration de la police.’ - You are needed, darling. Your father wants you over there, organising the police statement thing. 

**Age 18**

‘Allons-y’ - Let’s go 

‘Vous êtes mon été, et mon soleil, et mon amour. Je t’aime.’ - you are my summer, and my sun, and my love. I love you.

 


End file.
